


stars look on forever

by grantaireslonelysoul



Series: the moment you doubt whether you can fly [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, dancetaire, i feel like enjolras is slightly ooc and i'm sorry, i need grantaire as peter pan right now, the whole thing will just be one peter pan reference tbh, this will be a series, yes that last line is a peter pan reference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2013-12-17
Packaged: 2018-01-04 22:19:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1086309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grantaireslonelysoul/pseuds/grantaireslonelysoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire, once an extremely talented ballet dancer, now teaches dance to a bunch of little girls. But when one girl's brother comes to pick her up and sees his true talent, it looks like he may be getting a second chance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	stars look on forever

“Alright, guys. Class is done for today. Go on home, and be sure to practice for me. I’ll see you all Wednesday!”

            The class erupted with giggles and chatters, and Grantaire watched as the ten seven-year-olds ran to their dance bags and to greet their waiting parents. “Bye, R!” some of them called, and he smiled. As most of them drifted off to go home, he turned away to reach for his shoes. The music was still playing softly, and he’d been itching to dance- _really_ dance, not what he taught the first graders-all day.

            _“You shouldn’t ignore a sprain as ugly as this one,”_ the doctor had told him. _“This will most likely affect your entire career”_

            Well, fuck that.

            Grantaire flew across the room, whirling and leaping. It pained his left ankle, of course, but what didn’t these days? He didn’t care. This was the one time he got to be free, to not feel like such a fuck-up.

            He stumbled slightly on the final fouettè, making the next pas de boureè clumsy, and he cursed himself. If he was going to screw up, he could at least save it for the harder part of the dance.

            But he flew through everything else with ease, turning _en pointe_ and extending his leg behind him completely, his body forming a needle, with his torso perpendicular. Most male dancers never went on pointe, but Grantaire was not like most male dancers.

            He came down from is extension, and winced. This would definitely call for putting on his ankle brae as well as icing it.

            But he was not done.

            He raised his leg in _passé_ before kicking it to the side. He crossed that leg over, arching his back. He leaned backward; putting his other leg in passé while his body was turned to the side. He raised one arm above his head neatly. He-

            “Elise.”

            It was a male voice, commanding enough to make Grantaire stop dancing and turn around.

            A young man-in his early twenties? Grantaire was horrible at determining ages-stood, waiting for one of the girls in his class, who was standing in awe.

            “What’s up, cherie, didn’t you go out to meet your dad?” Grantaire asked, walking over to the little girl.

            “Brother,” the man corrected him. “Our dad’s home two days a month on average and our mother’s perpetually drunk. I pick her up, but today she didn’t come out to the car, so I had to come in.”

            “I was watching you dance,” Elise said shyly, looking at Grantaire. “You’re really good.”

            “I agree,” Elise’s brother said. He was good-looking-Grantaire had to will himself not to blush. “I saw you as I was going in, and I was very impressed.”

            “Thank you, Elise, “ Grantaire said, nodding at the little girl. “And thanks…”

            “Just call me Enjolras.” The man said, nodding. “And, if I may ask- and I mean nothing personal, Elise-but what are you doing here? I mean, you could be a professional dancer. Most male ballet dancers don’t go on pointe, right? That’s amazing.”

            Grantaire raised his eyebrows. “Someone has a dance background.”

            “Oh, no, not me-just my friend. Roommate, actually. He dances professionally, and of course I come see him. He not on pointe, though. I bet you’re in high demand.”

            Grantaire looked down. “I was.”

            “Was?” Enjolras furrowed his brow.

            Grantaire sighed. “I’d been dancing since age three, and on pointe since fourteen. I’d always been praised, even by complete strangers, so I decided to go to school for it.

            “I was doing really well, so I decided to audition for my first ballet outside of my classes. A Midsummer’s Night Dream.”

            Enjolras smiled. “And you got in.”

            For a moment, Grantaire smiled, too. “I did. An excellent part, too. Robin Goodfellow.”

            “Puck.” Enjolras nodded. “I’m sure you did well.”

            “I did.” Grantaire nodded. “All people talked about was my fantastic performance. Puck isn’t technically the lead, but my cast treated me like it. And one night, my director told me talent scouts would be there for one of the shows. Another ballet company was doing Peter Pan, and they wanted me in the title role.”

            Enjolras opened his mouth to speak, but Grantaire just kept talking. “It was my dream role. If I wasn’t motivated to do well before, I sure was then.   
            But I twisted my ankle during dress rehearsal.”

            Enjolras and Elise gasped, and Enjolras slowly said, “So, you didn’t go on.”

            “Oh, no,” Grantaire smiled, though he was breaking just thinking about it. “Oh no no no, I didn’t tell anyone-and just kept dancing.”

            “R!” piped up Elise. “You always tell us to _never_ keep an injury to ourselves!”

            Grantaire smiled sadly. “It’s pretty important, cherie. Two weeks into our three-week run, I was crying from the pain. I eventually was found by our Lysander, who called me an ambulance. I couldn’t even walk.”

            “So you weren’t in Peter Pan,” Enjolras stated, studying Grantaire.

            “Nope,” Grantaire confirmed. “The scouts knew I wouldn’t be performing, but they came anyway. My understudy, Prouvaire, got the role.”

            Enjolras’ eyes widened. “My roommate.”

            Grantaire smiled sarcastically. “It’s a small world Anyway, by the time I healed, I still couldn’t dance for very long. Nobody wants to cast a dancer who can’t dance, so I was out of a job. The only way I could dance was here, teaching-so here I am.”

            “But you were dancing there,” Elise pointed out. “And you taught us today.”

            Grantaire smiled sadly at her. “I was. But now I’ll be icing my ankle all night.”

            “Alone?” inquired Enjolras. “No girlfriend?”

            “No girlfriend,” Grantaire replied. “Though I don’t want one of those. I’d much prefer to having a boyfriend, but alas, they all seem to be hiding.”

            Elise squealed, “ _He_ wants a boyfriend, too!” she said, pointing at Enjolras.

            Grantaire smiled, feeling more hopeful than he had just seconds ago. “My comrade. The dating scene’s rough, is it not?”

            Enjolras averted his eyes. “If the fact that I haven’t seen anyone since I came out says anything, then yes.”

            “Surely not!” Grantaire feigned surprise. “Someone like you, stuck in a dry spell! It’s an abomination!”

            “I agree,” Enjolras smiled wanly, “but I should really be work-focused anyway.”

            “Oh? And where would that work be?”

            “I run a political newspaper,” Enjolras told him, a new gleam in his eyes “We strive to let the public know of the corruption that is our government, and that’s more important than any date.”

            Grantaire nodded. “I understand. However…would you be opposed to getting coffee with me?”

            Enjolras inclined his head. “I would not. However, you need to ice your ankle and I have to take this one home.” He ruffled Elise’s hair. “So, a raincheck?”

            “Not a problem, Apollo,” Grantaire nodded. “Text me-Elise has the number in her bag.”

            ~

            He got a text that night.

            _You should know I don’t drink coffee._

Grantaire held back a laugh as he texted back: _That’s fine. Tea alright? There’s a fantastic shop by the studio._

The next text came soon after: _What’s it called?_

            _Qualitea._

_Damnit, I was hoping you wouldn’t say that. I may or may not be allowed in there._

This time, Grantaire did laugh. _The cons of activism. What’d you do?_

_I’d really prefer not to tell you before the third date. Where else could we go?_

Grantaire held his breath. _Would you be opposed to coming to my apartment?_

            It was awhile before Enjolras responded. _I must be crazy, but no. No, I would not._

Grantaire inhaled. _Excellent. See you tomorrow? I teach until six, but after that…_

Enjolras seemed confused. _Elise doesn’t have class tomorrow._

            _No, but the ten through twelve year olds do._

            He could see Enjolras’ smile. _You are a wonder. I’ll be there at six._

            ~

            He was, and looking even better than the last time Grantaire had seen him. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t Apollo.”

            “The Greek god?” Enjolras raised an eyebrow.

            “The very one. You two are one and the same.”

            Ignoring him, Enjolras tilted his head. “So, what do you plan to do with me in your apartment?”

            “I actually had an idea.”

            Enjolras actually blushed. “Not _that!_ ”

            “Well, we know where your mind is, don’t we? I wasn’t thinking of _that_ , as you so eloquently put it. I was actually wondering if you wanted a dance lesson.”

            “R, I could in no way do what you do. I’m sorry, but my body does _not_ move that way.”

“I’ve been dancing for twenty years, there’s no way I expect you to, moron,” Grantaire snickered. “No, I meant…ballroom dancing.”

            “Ballroom dancing,” Enjolras said, trying to absorb the word. “It doesn’t sound too bad.”

            “You’ll give it a try?”  
            Enjolras took a deep breath. “Sure.”

            ~

            He was _awful._ Two left feet didn’t even do it justice, Grantaire thought. Enjolras had eight left feet, at least, being some weird sort of uncoordinated octopus. He stepped on Grantaire’s feet. He had no sense of movement whatsoever. He couldn’t remember the simplest box step and he was physically incapable of letting Grantaire lead.

            “No, Enjolras. Follow me. _One_ two three. _One_ two three. _One_ two three.”

            “One two three,” muttered Enjolras. “ _One_ two three. One, two-oh, shit, sorry!” He had trod on Grantaire’s feet. Again.

            Grantaire took a deep breath. “It’s fine. Shall we try again?”

            So they tried.            

            And tried.

            And tried.

            “There has…got to be something…easier…than this!” Enjolras grumbled after another half hour. “Seriously!”

            Grantaire wiped sweat from his brow. “Do you want to try something else? Ballet, or tap maybe?”

            “I’d be shit at tap, and I don’t want to risk my baby sister showing me up in ballet.” Enjolras bit his lip. “Will you dance for me?”

            Grantaire got butterflies. “Dance? For you?”

            “You don’t have to. But I’d like to watch you again.”

            “To what?”

            “Anything you want. I bet you have some stuff memorized from Midsummer. Or something you choreographed. I just want to see you again.”

            “I have something from Peter Pan memorized,” Grantaire said slowly. “I mean, I was never...but I taught myself a little.”

            Enjolras inclined his head. “Go for it.”

            And Grantaire did.

            His jumps were perfect, he knew, as were his leaps. The kicks could have been better, but Enjolras couldn’t tell.

            When he’d finished, Enjolras patted the couch next to him, and Grantaire sat.

            “You know,” Enjolras started. “I have a friend who is a _phenomenal_ physical therapist.”

            “Enjolras…” Grantaire sighed. “Do you think I don’t already go? I’m still basically fucking immobile if I dance for over an hour. When your ankle is as fucked as mine…there’s no hope.”

            “He’s world-famous” Enjolras pushed. “If you’re a dancer, you _have_ to have heard of Courfeyrac.”

            Grantaire’s mouth dropped. “Your friend is _Courfeyrac?!_ ”

            Enjolras nodded. “The very same.”

            Grantaire dropped back to reality. “It’d still take a while for my ankle to get back to normal, though. By that time, m prime time to get jobs would be through.”

            “You know,” Enjolras started again, “there’s a ballet company not far from here that mainly hires older dancers. They haven’t done anything major in awhile, but every five years they do Peter Pan.”

            Grantaire stopped breathing.

            “You know I can’t afford a decent physical therapist, let alone Courfeyrac. I’m on a dance teacher’s salary.”

            “Courf’s always made it clear that any friend of mine is a friend of his.” Enjolras looked directly at Grantaire. “Unless you’d like to be more than that.”

            For the second time that night, Grantaire’s stomach felt fluttery. “I would.”

            “Really?”

            In response, Grantaire kissed him, slow and tender, a ballet of sorts, he thought. Their mouths moved slowly, the way dance partners move around each other, trusting, soaring.

            “You’re beautiful,” Enjolras breathed, when they’d broken apart.

            “I’m a little bird that has broken out of the egg.”

 


End file.
